I must admit, not seeing you in the crowd the night you were doing that wedding brought a very hollow sensation on two fronts. Not only was I upset not to see you when I was performing, but I was also quite upset at myself for not being able to catch what came to be the moment you found your special talent, and got your cutie mark. It was a feeling I never wanted to repeat, yet as each of us ascended the ranks in our musical fields, with you getting more offers to DJ at other parties, and me getting offers to audition for different orchestras, I could sense such moments becoming more and more likely to repeat themselves, those feelings following close behind.
I still remember the time I sought to end our friendship after you repeatedly chose time in the studio with your production partner, Neon Lights, over coming to see my solo performances. I knew you needed to focus on your musical career at that point, but every time I didn't see your face in the crowd, I felt the divide between us grow that much more insurmountable . Likewise, the day you invited me to see you perform at a club in Las Pegasus, and family obligations kept me from making the trip, I can only imagine what you were going through, as if my word was as good as that of a career politician’s.
You told me as much the next time we met in Manehatten, the sting of disappointment creating what had to be the lowest of the lows in our time as friends. That night in Central Park, each of us brought up when one failed to be there for the other, and called each other things I never thought we'd ever resort to, our voices growing louder and more staccato. Under the glow of those street lamps, you referred to me as a frost queen, my craft, as sleep inducing and my mother, as someone with a stick firmly rammed up their backside, the wind whistling through the trees as I pointed out every single of your unrefined habits, and labeled your taste in music as complete rubbish. To this day, all the things that lead up to that scrap we had feel as if they happened yesterday.
You stood there in your jeans jacket as you screamed "You think I wanted to ditch that concert? You think I liked not being able to make your performances? You think it's fun for me for me you hurt you as much as you hurt me when you couldn't get to a single bucking party I spun at? I could understand not making the wedding, but not getting to a single lousy party I was at, when I told you weeks in advance? It's like you just don't give a crap about me being a DJ!"
"I could say the same about you towards my cello career! You can't even begin to understand how bloody incensed I was at you when you dozed off during the class concert! Then again, what should I have expected from someone whose parents raised up such a low class, obnoxious, and unrefined little maggot" I knew I should never have said that, but the second you slapped me in the face in retaliation, all I could think of as my body shook was how much I wanted to punch you in yours. Right after I did, I saw you put up your dukes, and come at me like a raging bull.
Even with your training in that boxing gym, your swings came at me with the speed and control of boulders raining from the sky. Of course, I wasn't much more defensively minded, either, considering I took no effort to dodge those wind ups, and barreled ahead with my own. Any moment I saw a hint of an opening, I threw my whole body into each punch, each aimed at turning your face into a red, black and blue pile of flesh. The second my upper caught you on the chin, you sent me stumbling back with one of your own, and tackled me to the grass.
Thankfully, my time training with Lily Blossom and her brother taught me much about fighting from my back, so when you threw down that elbow, I just had to trap your foot, and turn until I was on top. Before I could get into ground and pound, though, you picked me up by the sheer strength of your magic, and threw me as if I were a rag doll into a nearby oak. The pain shot through my back like a rocket as I picked myself, and punched through that energy ball flying right at me.
As you charged at me with that energy charged cross, I dealt with it just as Midnight Blaze taught me to: turning, capturing the wrist and arm, then popping my hips into an over the shoulder toss,(what he called an Ippon Seoi-Nage). The thud your body made on impact echoed throughout the park, the glazed over gaze I saw soon after telling me you had nothing left, and that our fight had ended. With heavy breaths, I threw a few bits down beside you as I screamed, "You can take a cab home, you sodding twit," and walked away. My family's butler, Blanctorche, must've between quite confused when I walked towards the Rolls Royce alone, probably concerned about the blood and bruises dotting my face by that point. When he asked if you were coming, the only thing I could say was, "Vinyl Scratch will no longer be accompanying me"
You remember Blanctorche, don’t you? He was the towering figure in a black dress coat, white button up shirt and black dress pants that greeted you when you visited my family’s mansion. Before you came into my life, that man with the slack grey hair was also the person I confided in most, and became that again when I decided it wasn’t worth being friends with you anymore. Days without speaking to you became weeks, those weeks becoming months, and those months growing near to a year before I realized how much I missed having you around. He even convinced me to call you after all the times I brought up the stupid little things you used to do, but when I heard your voice, I couldn't think of anything I wanted to say, not to the person who thought so little of my profession, of the thing I pour my heart and soul into.
Likewise, the first times you tried to contact me, I had zero desire to hear you out-as you probably guessed from Blanctorche's rather curt denials. Once you stopped calling, though, things felt different. How? Well, once I stopped seeing you at Stacks, meeting up with you to chat over a plate of chili cheese fries, and speaking with you whenever I needed advice on things, a hollow sensation I never knew before started swelling within. I realized I no longer had a yang to balance with my yin, a confidant with which I could entrust my deepest secrets, the person I knew as my sister from another father, and the harder that hit me, I more I felt a gap inside me that needed to be filled. I didn't know what could be done to stop the aches my heart went through, and I wanted to do whatever it took to make it stop
When I was in college, I found research on how our five senses can link us back to our memories, something I learned when I heard dubstep on the radio, saw another woman with wild cobalt hair, and caught a whiff of that tangy, cheesy, savoury treat while running errands. Each of those brought back countless memories of our time together, and made me consider whatever apology you had. In those times, however, I remembered what Blanctorche told me since I was a child: no matter how many times you apologize to a broken plate, it'll never return to what it was. I knew whatever we had as friends was gone forever after that day, that nothing would bring it back, so instead of making a fruitless pursuit, I tried to pour my pain into my work, and let it make me better.
That time you were gone, I could feel every emotion bubbling inside stream through my fingertips and into my cello, making each session that much more raw, that much more intense, that much more captivating to my peers. Of course, they saw the facade I've trained over a lifetime in high society, they never saw me punch the walls of my bedroom, cry into a pillow or drink myself into a stupor because I pushed away someone close to me. Call after call came in inquiring about my cello skills, but none of it ever made me feel whole, in turn leading me to seek out what would.
Around that time, I bumped into a drug dealer offering their wares, including a blue, powdery substance he called Diamond Candy, and claimed would make me feel like I'm walking on air. I remembered my peers speaking highly of the sensations they had on Diamond Candy, so with nothing left to lose, I bought a small bag's worth of the stuff, and made my way to my apartment on the upper east side. As always, Blanctorche, who my parents sent to check on me, was waiting faithfully for me to return, the apartment more spic and span than anything I was capable of, so I sent him off to get dinner for the two of us from the local burger spot. As I pondered my recent purchase, I sat on the ebony couch in the living room, and diced the substance up with a credit card-for better snorting as the dealer instructed during my purchase. As I did, Blanctorche opened the door, likely hoping to share a tender moment with me, only to reveal what I had in mind, his jaw fully slacked, and his brow soon fully furrowed as he strode towards me, and put the bag of food down on the ivory colored table. I could hear the tremor in his voice as he said, "Forgive me for this, Madam," and slapped me across the cheek.
"Imbécile!" He screamed. "Have you lost your mind!? Why in Tartarus are you doing this to yourself!? Do you have any idea what this does to your mind and body!?" He's been with the family since I was born, so he knows well who I am, what I can do and where my skills can take me. Because of that, I knew why he was so upset, why he immediately went to flush my purchase down the toilet, and, based on what my instincts were telling me, that he was about to give me an earful. To my surprise, after a few moments of huffing and puffing, he apologized for striking me, and proceeded to tell me of his own encounters with Diamond Candy while we enjoyed our big, juicy burgers
His friends from when he was a young transient were highly paranoid after they took the drug, and got so hooked on it, they sunk to the absolute depths of indignity in order to get more of it, even as others were dying from spontaneous heart attacks, strokes and seizures brought on by it. They trashed their lives as bankers, soldiers and public relations managers to get more of the stuff, and he was close to doing the same before he ran into my parents, and stopped someone from stealing my mother’s purse. “They gave me a chance to lead a better life that day,” he told me between sips of soda, “the same thing they, I and everyone else you care for wants for you. Even if those people cannot always be there in person, they want you to rise, to thrive, to become even greater than you are now. You cannot do that if you keep seeking a way to escape what troubles you”
I think he knew, though, that because he was there to guide me through my dark time, I knew without a doubt that he cared about my welfare-about me. When he smiled at me during my cello practice sessions, a warmth spread through me as I refined my skills for a big solo concert I was due to play in a week’s time. I was hoping to see him there, but he said his services were needed with my parents before then, promising to arrange for Lily Blossom, now a manager at an NPO serving the needs of the Manehatten community, to make an appearance. The day I saw him off at the airport, he smiled at me and said, “L'orgueil est le consolateur des faibles,” the meaning of which I did not grasp until the day of the concert
The day of the concert, I was hoping to give Lily Blossom and everyone there the performance of a lifetime, giving them a taste of both classical and my contemporary Cello play. I sat on the stool on center stage, and watched as the the curtain rose, revealing that Lily Blossom, in her backless white dress and high ponytail, was looking for her front row seats, with her plus one following close behind. Her plus one was stunning in her blue sequined dress and feathered cobalt and cyan hair, and in flash, it came to me who her plus one was. Her plus one...was you. Before I put the bow to the strings, I caught my breath, and I thought back to the translation of Blanctorche’s parting words, “Pride is the consolation of the weak”
As I started into Cello Suite No.1 i-Prelude, the way you leaned in and focused your attention filled me with butterflies I haven’t felt since my first recital as a child. Each note flowed out of me like wine, my hands near trembling as I got further into my set, and dipped into a couple original pieces I wanted to debut. As giddy as the audience’s applause made me, none of it was nearly as loud as the smile you gave me at the end. I could sense, though, from your half closed gaze, there was a hint of sadness, like there was something wanted to say, but held to yourself until you left. When I made it to my dressing room, my iPlayer said Blanctorche sent me an e-mail, its message simple and clear:
“Ms. Vinyl Scratch has extended an invitation to her performance in two weeks at Shelter, a nightclub on the west side of town. Be sure to dress appropriately, and bring a plus one”
The day after that performance, two weeks from then also became the day I was to go in for an audition for the Manehatten Orchestra. I didn't know what I was going to do, but I knew that whatever I chose, it had to be something that meant everything to me, and that I would never regret choosing. I only wish the choice had been as clear then as it is now.
